Fifteen years ago, Todd and I were living the carefree life of a dual-income, no-kids couple (well, as carefree as two moderately Type A, not-at-all-spontaneous people can manage). Then Adam was placed in our arms and everything changed.
A decade-and-a-half later, I still occasionally wake up overwhelmed by the magnitude of what happened that day. Armed with formula, diapers, and a 784-page tome simply entitled The Baby Book, we were horribly unprepared for what lay ahead.
Thankfully Adam, in all his six-month-old wisdom, let a lot of things slide. As long as we kept the bottles coming, he was a pretty happy baby.
Of course, taking care of a child’s basic needs is hardly sufficient and even an endless supply of formula isn’t going to cut it long-term. As Adam has grown, we’ve had a lot of (very difficult) discussions around adoption and what it means for him and for our family.
Adam considers adoption to be a very distant second-best option for life, and I can’t say that I disagree. We are here to support him as he navigates life as a transracial adoptee, recognising that support is going to look different as he grows into a young man (and beyond).
As Adam says, adoption isn’t something to be celebrated, but it’s nice to mark the day. Today that involves eating cinnamon buns for dinner.
And that seems perfect.